The Ugliness of Broken Things
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: You know the ugliness of broken things; you know that people like Percy cannot function without dreams. And Percy has so very many dreams—he must have, to keep believing like he does.


**Title**: The Ugliness of Broken Things

**Author:** The Rebellious Observer

**Rating**: PG-13. Fuck this "T" business.

**Pairing:** Hints of one-sided Unknown/Percy

**Summary: **You know the ugliness of broken things; you know that people like Percy cannot function without dreams. And Percy has so very many dreams—he must have, to keep believing like he does.

**Disclaimer:** Well, I don't own HP, if you were wondering. But if I did, there'd be a lot of sex.

He's really gorgeous, you think.

Bona-fide, eye-busting gorgeous, and he doesn't even know it.

He hides under carefully patched robes and glasses that swallow his face, but it's there. You see it.

There is nothing to subdue the defiant, fuck-you-if-you-don't-like-it red of his hair; no pair of lenses thick enough to obscure those shocking blue eyes.

He's a skittish one, though, you know. Stand-offish lonely; priggishly proud with rules seared straight into his brain and a stick shoved up his ass for so long you bet he can't even remember a time when it wasn't there. Maybe it always was.

He's so cautious; withdrawn into himself too far—he wears his vulnerability like a brand without ever knowing he's given himself away. He's been hurt, this one; you don't know how or when or by whom, but you can tell.

The stern line of his tight lips tempt you; sometimes he worries them with his teeth when he's going through reports, and you have to remind yourself that it really isn't such a great idea to lean in and sooth that bitten expanse with a kiss and the lingering swipe of your tongue. You'd like to know what he'd do, though, if you did.

You're positive he's too naïve for this place; he's oblivious to intrigues and hidden agendas—he actually _believes_ in the work he's doing; he thinks he can help change the whole god-damned world—thinks it'll be wonderful, it'll be better than it was. He's confident his hard work will pay off. His sacrifices will be worth it.

He has not lost faith in this hopeless institution; no, not yet. But he will, you know. Someday, he will. He will crash and burn and you don't know how you'll react when you see what's left of him; he'll burst open nice and good like an eggshell when the disillusionment finally sears right up and out of him, and you have a feeling that the scalding-sharp edges that are left will not be salvageable. Ruined things like that cannot be fixed—not really. Not ever.

The wild glimmer of hope in his weary, old-boy-body is all Percy has left; he needs that. If—when—it is gone—he—he'll—no. Better not to think of it.

You know the ugliness of broken things; you know that people like Percy cannot function without dreams. And Percy has so very many dreams—he must have, to keep believing like he does.

The day after the attack on the Ministry, you look knowingly at the uncertainty, the shock and disbelief wriggling uncomfortably under his skin, and you are sad for the cool, coiling thread of doubt knotting itself right and tight inside his stomach and making his heart beat too fast, too loud.

Today is the day he will begin to question everything he thought he knew; what he was taught. Today he will be forced to face himself in a world without certainties and structure; there is only one outcome for this impending shock, you're sure of it.

You don't know when that doubt will bubble up and push out all the hope he has inside of him—today or tomorrow or next year it will ooze out through his open eyes and sizzle down his cracking face—but it will happen, and it will hurt, and you don't think he's strong enough to have anything of himself left when it's done. You don't think anyone's strong enough for that.

Which is a shame, because—

He's really gorgeous, you think. But he's been hurt, this one, and it'll leave him dry and cutting and brittle; and ruined things like that don't get fixed—not really. Not ever.

You know the ugliness of broken things.


End file.
